


The Mind of a Philosopher

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2015 [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Infants, M/M, Parenthood, Parentlock, i might know a lot about that currently, infants who refuse to sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every night, Mycroft forgets.  Every night, Mycroft remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mind of a Philosopher

**Author's Note:**

> Day 18 of the Advent Calendar Drabbles for 2015. Today's prompt is from marta, who actually wanted Mycroft's reasoning for his line about Sherlock having the mind of a philosopher. I couldn't really think of a good explanation, but I did think of this, which is _sort_ of philosophical, so hopefully she doesn't mind.
> 
> Totally feel free to read this as a second part to [Bonding](http://archiveofourown.org/works/597064) (which was an Advent Calendar fic a few years ago).

Every night, there is a moment when he forgets how awful it is.

 

The room is quiet, lit by the soft glow of the nightlight at his elbow, and the dim lamp on the other side of the room.  The white-noise machine is set on _Rain_ , so low that Mycroft often forgets to notice it at all. 

 

The baby in his arms yawns, widely, and turns his face into Mycroft’s chest, rubbing his nose and cheeks back and forth across the soft cotton of his shirt, until he lets out a deep sigh (how does a baby sigh so deeply?) and settles again, exactly as if he has found the most comfortable position after a long journey.  He is tipped to his side, one hand on Mycroft’s chest, fingers splayed out, and as Mycroft watches, they curl in on themselves, a loose, soft fist.

 

He breathes easily, lightly, as if the last half hour of hard protestation never occurred.  Mycroft holds his own breath for fear of waking him.  He looks gentle, like this.  Lips dark red and pursed slightly, his cheeks rounded and sweet.  Mycroft can see every eyelash, every tiny hair in his eyebrows, the thin down on his head, in perfect detail.

 

The silence of the room, the baby’s breaths, the creak of the rocking chair, the whirr of the white noise machine.  The gentle creak and pop of the house settling, John’s muted footsteps downstairs. 

 

The distant sounds of London traffic, the ebb and flow of life as it turns, unaware of the small moment in the nursery, the baby asleep, his father captivated by his every breath.

 

Every night, there is a moment like this, when the nursery falls silent, when Mycroft can forget what came before, when he isn’t worried about what comes next.  Every night, he looks on the sleeping face of his son, and remembers what it is like to be at peace.


End file.
